


Je Sues Prest - Fic

by AdaptationDecay



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Definitely no plagiarized dialogue here, Deliberate Badfic, Honest, M/M, No siree bob!, Not from Outlander, Not from the Goss recaps on meme, The Author Regrets Everything, This is one hundred percent original work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdaptationDecay/pseuds/AdaptationDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my very own original idea for a time travel story!</p><p>Except for the bits about J2's relationship, which are obviously all true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je Sues Prest - Fic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Je Sues Prest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320538) by Anonymous. 
  * Inspired by [Je Sues Prest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320538) by Anonymous. 



People disappear all the time. Young girls run away from home. Children stray from their parents and are never seen again. Housewives take the grocery money, and a taxi to the train station. Most are found eventually. Disappearances, after all, have explanations. Usually.

It's strange, the things you remember. Single images and feelings that stay with you down through the years. Like the moment I realized I'd never lived with my secret boyfriend, Jared Padalecki. That I'd never lived out of the public eye long enough to for it to be safe to have such a simple thing. And how at that moment, I wanted nothing so much in all the world as to have a home of mine and Jared's very own.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Six months after the last ever season of Supernatural had wrapped. we were at a convention in Scotland. The fangirls were wailing. I can still remember hearing them shouting "Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, my God! - Oh, Jesus." We did what we could for them. In a way, being one of the J's is a lot like being a professional nurse.

It was the last convention we'd been scheduled to attend and the last day of our contract with CW which forced Jared and I to hide our love from the world.

"Jensen, did you hear? It's over! - It's really finally over!"

Somehow in my mind, that final Supernatural convention, the end of the dullest and most terrible TV show in human history, grows fainter with each passing day. But I can still recall every detail of the day when I saw the life I wanted sitting on a real estate website. Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd bought that house in Texas and made a home of it with Jared. Would that have changed things? Would I have been happy? Who can say? I do know this: Even now, after all the pain and death and heartbreak that followed, I still would make the same choice.

_Sing me a song of a lass that is gone say,_  
could that lass be I  
merry of soul she sailed on a day  
over the sea to Sky  
billow and breeze,  
islands and seas,  
mountains of rain and sun  
all that was good,  
all that was fair  
all that was me is gone  
sing me a song of a lass that is gone say,  
could that lass be I  
merry of soul she sailed on a day  
over the sea to Sky 

We stayed in Scotland after the convention. It was like a second honeymoon. Or at least that's what Jared called it, despite the fact that we'd never had a first one thanks to the machinations of the evil hetshippers. A way to celebrate the end of Supernatural and begin our lives anew. But it was more than that. I think we both felt a holiday would be a convenient masquerade for the real business of getting to know the people we'd become after years of being forced apart by a network television PR conspiracy.

The first thing we noticed was that lots of the doors in the village were stained with blood. I'd had no idea Inverness was a hotbed of contemporary paganism, but Jared told me that there was no place on earth with more magic and superstition mixed into its daily life than the Scottish islands.

One of the locals - a Mrs Baird - told us that it was the blood of a black cockerel. An old custom at this time of year to make such a sacrifice to honor Saint Odhran.

"Ah, Odhran," said Jared. "He could be dealt with by cockerel blood or a pump action shotgun full of rocksalt, yes?" 

"You know your history," she said approvingly.

"I'm afraid my husband paid a lot more attention to the exposition in the shooting scripts than me, Mrs. Baird. He'd quite happily stand here holding forth for hours - if you encourage him."

My husband! I'd called him my husband in public! I felt an undeniable frisson...

"Are you a professor, then, Mr. Padalecki?"

"Maybe I will be."

"He's finally free of a sinister plot to hide his true sexuality only guessed at by a handful of overinvested internet tinhats," I explained. "It's quite liberating to feel that we could be anything we want now."

"Ah, then this is a last holiday before settling down to your real life, is it? Well, you've picked a Bonnie time to be here. Just nigh on Samhain."

Samhain is a Gaelic word for Halloween. I was to learn another word soon, Sassenach or Outlander...

 

oooooOOOOOOOOOOOO0000000000000000000OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo

On a local hill just outside the village was a circle of standing stones. A place called Craigh na Dun. Jared and I went there to see the witches.

They weren't actually witches, just a local group who still observed rituals there. They should have been ridiculous. And perhaps they were. Parading in circles on top of a hill. But the hairs on the back of my neck prickled at the sight. And some small voice inside warned me, I wasn't supposed to be here. That I was an unwelcome voyeur to something ancient and powerful.

Or possibly being party to anything even vaguely supernatural was still too fresh and painful of a reminder of my years on Supernatural under the yoke of the PR devil men.

We were about to go, when I realized I'd left my goodie bag from the convention behind, so I walked back to get it without Jared...

Once, on Supernatural, I acted in an episode about a haunted racist car that involved some stunt work. I remember seeing the world spinning outside the car windows, and the sickening sensation of falling at high speed. That is as close as I can come to describing what I experienced. But it falls woefully short.

When confronted with the impossible, the rational mind will grope for the logical. I heard shooting around me and thought perhaps I was back on set and my freedom just a dream. But there was no logical reason for actors to fire live ammunition.

"Jared? What the devil are you doing? You're not Jared."

A man with a sausage stood before me.

"No, madam, I'm not."

"Who the bloody hell are you?" 

"I'm Misha Randall, esquire. Captain of his majesty's eighth dragoons."

"My husband's expecting me. He'll come looking for me if I'm not back in ten minutes."

"Your husband. What's his name?"

"Jared Padalecki. He's a professor. Or he will be. If he wants to. Maybe."

"You must think me the fool," said Misha. "You'll be well advised to tell me exactly who you are and why you are here."

He reached for me and suddenly I was within his power! There was nothing remotely gossamer about his nutsack as he tried to force himself upon me...

TO BE CONTINUED! I WILL ONLY WRITE PART II IF I GET AT LEAST 70 KUDOSES!


End file.
